break
by grotesqueries
Summary: clintasha- take yourself to higher places. written for lizzie.


this has been swimming around for a while, and it was originally something i wrote for one of my good friends, lizzie. so once you read this, well, enjoy. it's rough and i will probably find countless errors, but eh.

(I don't own the avengers, nor do I want to.)

* * *

Clint has a lot of sleepless nights. he goes on grueling, backbreaking missions, slings arrows through the necks of countless men and women

and most nights the crippling waves of guilt hit him long before exhaustion does.

* * *

"I've got red on my ledger," she says smoothly as she takes a seat by his legs, crystal clear and stinking of caffeine. "And I'd like to wipe it out." The corners of her mouth curl, a silent tease just for him. Always for him. "Remember that?"

Wordlessly - though she knows what he thinks, knows that there is a groan hiding behind his knowing smile and a silent chant of '_Nat, Nat, Nat,_' on repeat - he grasps her chin and closes the gap between them.

He had forgotten just how welcoming Natasha's lips could be when pressed so symbiotically against his own.

She goes off to her mission the next morning.

* * *

"This is the fifth time you've been here since Monday." It's not a question, it's a statement, a concise curl of words from the frown that's currently her mouth.

"And?"

"It's only Wednesday. I'm not that sick."

"You got shot through your uterus. Twice. Do you do realize that?"

"Like I could ever have kids anyway."

"You need intensive surgery and you're concerned with whether to not you want kids?" It's such a ridiculous concept yet something so base when coming from Natasha that he almost laughs. But he doesn't. She'd hate him if he did, because even if she passes this off at nothing they both know of it as something.

She gives him one last scornful glance before she drifts off to sleep.

* * *

While she sleeps, Clint talks. Usually she's out cold, but sometimes she'll murmur in response from a world half between consciousness and sleep, jumbled replies to scattered stories.

Sometimes, when she's in an induced sleep, he tells her about his childhood, about what it was like growing up in the south with five other siblings on a ranch fifty miles from the city, with a typical traditional family who shuddered at the thought of losing their middle child to the lurking branches of the big city. Sometimes he'll tell her about his entrance into S.H.I.E.L.D. and how Agent Coulson got a little jealous at first, because Clint was suddenly Nick Fury's golden boy, his famed pet hawk, and why he made a different call when he was sent out the kill her. (that one he only tells when she's deep in, past sleep. she does not need to know that he changed his mission because he couldn't bear to send an arrow through the neck of the most beautiful girl he's ever met.) And once, only once, does he holds her hand so softly and whisper to her what he dreams about, how all he wants sometimes is to settle down with her, leave the soldier-spy-assasin lifestyle and get married, maybe have kids, even though he knows all too well that that will never happen, not until the day they die.

* * *

"You don't have to _coddle_ me," she says crossly when he comes in for the seventh time the day after.

He almost looks offended, with his sunken in eyes and messy hair, as he leans back in his chair. "I'm not coddling you."

"You are. I don't need to be watched over day in and day out. I've been cleared for surgery tomorrow and I swear if I see you then, I'll have you kicked out."

he fights back a weak smile. "Fair enough, Nat." He doesn't tell her that he has every intention of waiting outside until she's been put under, and he also doesn't tell her that if he's not there to watch the surgery, he won't allow the surgery. Fury will allow his hawk at least that.

The next day, he watches through glass panes as she grimly scowls at him, charming even still. "Shoo!" She mouths, arm crossed. "Fly away, little bird."

He waves calmly, lips curling at her usual tease of a nickname. "See you on the other side!" he mouths jokingly, an amused smile moving into place on his face. She can probably see right through him, but that's okay, she's already got the needle in her arm telling her to go goodnight. He watches as her eyes droop closed and then, finally, he enters and moves to stand beside her bed.

"Agent Barton, you may want to stand back." a doctor warns, his voice wary as if he expects to be scolded. Clint only shakes his head.

"I need to be here. It's okay if I get blood on me, it's not like it's anything new. Just tell me if you need me to move."

The doctor cracks a smile as he pulls his surgical mask on and nods. "As you wish, Agent Barton. We'll start the procedure in a few moments."

* * *

Natasha comes out of surgery a few hours later looking like she slept through an 8.5 earthquake. Her hair is a little mussed and god, she's so pale he can see the veins in her wrists when she moves. She flinches as she attempts to sit up, a hand automatically going to her stomach. Clint stands from the chair they brought for him an hour or so in and brushes himself off.

"How do you feel?"

Her eyes flutter openly sharply. "Clint? Why are you here?" She attempts to sit up again, but he's up and beside her before she can, his hand soft on her shoulder.

"Don't overexert yourself."

"Why are you here? I told you to stay away," she hisses. He sighs, nodding nonchalantly at the doctors.

"Your blood pressure dropped while you were in surgery, you evened out but they still pulled me in." It's a lie, of course, but she believes it - or if she doesn't, she's simply not in the mood to argue. So she shakes her hand, raising a hand to cover her eyes.

"Like shit." She says after a second.

"Hm?"

"My answer to your question. Shit. I feel like shit."

He chuckles, carefully taking a seat by her legs and resting his hand on hers. "I'm not surprised, Nat."

"How long was I under?"

"Couple hours. The doctor's would know for sure. Either way, you'll be out soon."

She snorts, tossing her head fitfully. "You don't know that."

"Says who? Of course I do." He almost reminds her that he can get her out, but he remembers then that that'd only make her feel like his pawn. (Really, it's the other way around.) "Just trust me, okay?" She eyes him warily, but still she curls her fingers, prompting him to lace his fingers between hers.

A doctor meanders up somewhat cautiously, peeking out from behind Clint with an expression of discomfort. "Uh, Ms. Romanoff, we just need to run a few more tests and then you'll be free to go, though I'm going to have to insist that you stay in bed so as to let your body heal. We'll need to pull you in in a week or so to run residual hacks as well, but other than that, you're fine." She nods at him firmly. The doctor shuffles, his shining leather shoes scuffing the floor indistunguishably. "In fact, the tests should be done soon. Mr. Barton, if you could help her up, the tests should be done by the time she's ready to be transported." he nods suddenly, as if too nervous to stay, and then darts off. Natasha stifles a tired laugh, blinking slowly before raising an eyebrow.

"Well, _Mr. Barton_, why don't you use some of that southern chivalry and help a girl out?" her voice takes on a sugar-sweet affectation, her sarcasm bringing forth a grin.

"Why, certainly, Missus Romanoff, you needn't ask." He squeezes her hand as he stands, sliding his arms under her knees and behind her back and lifting her smoothly, instinctively holding her body closer to his. "You comfortable?"

She nods, flinching slightly as he shifts his weight. "Thank god for morphine," she bites out, prompting a laugh. The doctor flashes them a thumbs-up from his position across the room and without a word, Clint carries her out and off to her room.

* * *

The doctors call her in a week later and she can tell by their expressions that they aren't pleased. Clint squeezes her hand under the table - because of course they chose dinner to seek her out, the one night Clint's free - and without a word the doctor leads them off. Her expression is grim as she pulls the x-rays and reports up on the screen, her hands shaking her so slightly.

"It appears, um, well- You may want to sit down for this?" She casts a nervous glance over her shoulder and almost flinches as Natasha heaves a heavy sigh, sitting down dramatically.

"Just spit it out."

Clint casts her a pointed look as he sits beside her, he swears he can feel her irritation roll of her in waves, and as the doctor turns he hopes that this ends up being worth his-

"From what our results show, you're infertile."

- and he swears his world comes crashing down. his grip on her hand tightens and if she weren't a super spy he swears she'd squirm.

"What?" he says, his voice suddenly raw.

"And that matters why?" She says at the same time, her voice flat.

"Tasha, think about this-"

She doesn't even bat an eye as she cuts him off, taking his hand and standing abruptly. "Thank you for telling me, Doctor. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a dinner to attend to." And at that she turns on her heel, tugging Clint behind her. "What nonsense," she says, her tone bored. She drops his hand in favor of weaving through the residual crowds of scientists and S.H.I.E.L.D. employees.

"This doesn't phase you at all?"

"Of course not." She gives him a skeptical sort of look as they sit. "Why should it?" He lowers his eyes and she feels her heart skip a beat.

"Well, I thought-" he shifts, his eyes darting from her down to their glasses of water, half full. "I thought maybe you'd want to settle down one day."

She raises her eyebrows, one after the other, her hand going up to rest on the table. "Clint?"

"Yeah, Tasha?"

"Is there something I should know? Because you're the only one even vaguely upset over this."

He locks eye with her, a funny sort of expression coming over him. _Of course not, Tasha, _he almost says. _Of course not. _

"Well?" she asks after a few moments, leaning forward. All business, all the time.

"_I _wanted to settle down." he finally says, eyes shifting to the side.

"No one's saying you can't."

"No, Tasha, I mean- I meant- _I_ wanted to settle down with _you_," he supplies lamely.

She blinks. A stray strand of hair floats to rest on her eyelashes, as if to accent her confusion. "You know that's nothing but wishful thinking. I can't even- God, Clint, I never even had that option."

"Of course I do, jesus Tasha, but that doesn't mean I can't wish."

She leans forward, pity in her eyes, and rests her hand on his face, fingers touching his cheekbones. "If we weren't damned forever, I'd gladly live through the rest of my accursed days with you."

She presses her lips to his softly, eyes fluttering closed, and oh, the world stops.

"I'm sorry," he says after, a hand over hers.

"Don't be."

_You know better._

* * *

**fin.**

i like page breaks and i cannot lie.

legit.


End file.
